XII

“Oh, me!” Then he changed his tone. “Yes,” he said. “You know without asking.” Which was true.

She rose and picked up her hat. “I must go,” she said.

“Will you go?” he replied politely.

She wanted him to touch her, to say something to her, but he said nothing, only waited politely.

“Thank you for the tea,” she said.

“I haven’t thanked your Ladyship for doing me the honours of my teapot,” he said.

She went down the path, and he stood in the doorway, faintly grinning. Flossie came running with her tail lifted. And Connie had to plod dumbly across into the wood, knowing he was standing there watching her, with that incomprehensible grin on his face.

She walked home very much downcast and annoyed. She didn’t at all like his saying he had been made use of; because in a sense it was true. But he oughtn’t to have said it. Therefore, again, she was divided between two feelings; resentment against him, and a desire to make it up with him.

She passed a very uneasy and irritated teatime, and at once went up to her room. But when she was there it was no good; she could neither sit nor stand. She would have to do something about it. She would have to go back to the hut; if he was not there, well and good.

She slipped out of the side door, and took her way direct and a little sullen. When she came to the clearing she was terribly uneasy. But there he was again, in his shirtsleeves, stooping, letting the hens out of the coops, among the chicks that were now growing a little gawky, but were much more trim than hen-chickens.